


Don't leave me

by HellsPurestDevil



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Death, Final moments, Gen, Sad, Sunsets, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 07:56:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14828417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellsPurestDevil/pseuds/HellsPurestDevil
Summary: But as time slowed to a stand still, and the scent of the blood that was dribbling from the boys nose and stomach wound caught on the winds, Thomas fully came to realize what he had come to know for so many years,His prayers were in vain.





	Don't leave me

It was hard to know if they were winning or losing. Lately there didn’t seem to be much use in distinguishing the two. They always lost far too much when they won.

Philip tried to find himself in the heat of battle. He knew what he was supposed to do. What everyone expected him to do. Keep fighting. Never stop, never tire, never fall.

But he was lost. The faces around him were all blurring into one. He didn’t know who was an enemy, or who was a friend. It didn’t seem to matter anymore. He couldn’t even remember what enemy they were supposed to be up against.

Without thinking he sidestepped a blow. He had been too distracted to know where it had come from. There was no way he could know who was attacking him, or from what direction. Danger was on all sides, all around him. He struggled to remember a time when it had been different. When he hadn’t had to put up with constant fear and worry. When people he loved hadn’t been dying all around him. He’d lost track of everything in the battle that swirled around him. He didn’t know where he’d started fighting. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a familiar face. The sounds of battle were ringing in his ears, clanging around him, but he barely heard any of it. He had tried to find strength in it. It meant that things weren’t over yet. They were still fighting. The cacophony of battle suggested that they were still far from losing. But that thought just made him feel exhausted.

Philip had been fighting blindly, relying on his instincts to get him through second after second. There was something about this fight. He’d been in the thick of it countless times before. He’d been here, right where he was now, too many times to count. But this time it was different. Philip couldn’t shake off the distinct feeling that he had lost more than just himself in this fight. More and more, every second, something was flying further out of his grasp, and he couldn’t shake it off like he had so many times before.

Philip was ashamed. He was being weak. He was letting everyone down. He was supposed to know what he was doing. He was supposed to make a difference. He couldn’t tell if he had done that, or if his efforts were, in reality, ineffective.

It all just felt hopeless.

_ _ _

_He never saw the red coat…._

He walked the dusty trail with the sun beating down on his back and the smell of dust and fumes thick at the back of his throat, hair matted from where he’d pushed it back from his face with bloodied fingers.

He looked at his hands now, at where they pressed against his stomach, blood welling thick and fast between them, spilling over already soaked cloth to drip and pool on the hot ground. He looked at his hands covering his wound, the skin covering his knuckles grazed and pulled back. Agony had dulled his eyes and unconscious tears had escaped, trailing glistening patterns on his face that reflected the summer sun back at him. There was nothing he could do.

He shifted, pressing more firmly against the open wound, not knowing if he was doing more harm than good, not caring about the rough surface of the road that tore at his knees when he crumbled down to the ground. He felt his body tense under his own hands; his head arcing back as he gritted his teeth, a minute sound of pain escaping.

Through blurry eyes he saw the bodies that littered the ground like broken dolls, stained with blood and dirt. Heard the Pitiful moans that echoed in the air, desperate pleas for help. The ground was muddy from the sudden summers rain, and scarred from the passage of cannonballs, deep gashes seared into the earth. Shadowy figures moved silently across the battlefield, giving aid and comfort to their friends, and final peace to their enemies.

He lay on his side, back pressed against a old bolder-stone that had served as cover to the dead solider beside him. He laid down amid the soft yet bloodied moss, the warmth easing his painful body and lulling him into a dreamless sleep.

 _So this is what dying feels like_.

It was odd, really, how calm he felt about the situation. Lying here, life seeping out of him onto the cooling ground. But as his body slowed down, his breath wafting in slower and slower increments as he rested, He realized he was not afraid to die. He should have been, he knew that, but he had come to terms with it a long time ago. He had no problem dying alone either. He always knew he might. That was consequence of war, was it not?

He opened his eyes slowly, drying blood from the cut on his forehead nearly gluing them shut. He looked out passed the fields of bodies, to the setting sun, marveling at the spectacular coloring as he watched the sun sink lower and lower over the horizon until his eyes fell shut and he could no longer feel the warmth of the sun, but the coolness of night.

_____

The sun no longer shone and the earth had grown still and silent by the time someone finally had found him. Death lingered on the wind’s breath as it whispered against Philip’s ears. He could distinguish whispers but no clear voices: four, maybe five unidentifiable faces were standing in the dark.

His head was not lying on the ground anymore. He could feel the gravity pull the blood from his nose down passed his lips instead of around them as something lifted his head from where it lay and prop him up.

_“Don’t you do this, Philip. Don’t.”_

He couldn’t distinguish the voice. Didn’t know who it was. He could feel it. The words as they were spoken against his cooling brow. The soft movement of muscles as they formed the words being spoken and pressed their cheek against his head.

“ _Come back, kid. I’m… I’m_ …”

Whoever kept their head pressed against his; he could feel the way they shook. “ _Don’t you dare leave me_.” They whispered.

Philip went to open his eyes, to put a face to the pleading voice. To give what comfort he could give to whoever wished to mourn his death. But no sooner did his eyes slowly open, did his vision start to go dark around the edges and they fell close once again. He couldn’t place a face to the voice like he wanted too, But he allowed himself to relax in their embrace.

It was the only thing he could do.

___

Thomas sat there praying for hours. He prayed more that night then he had any other night. Not when his mother died. Not when his father. Not when his Children, not even when his precious Martha died.

As he sat there praying, hoping, Thomas wiped a stray tear away from the dirt-stained face of the body he held as Philip’s eyes started to close. So this is how it felt. To have one’s recently discovered heart torn apart again.

He cradled the boy, squeezing the boy’s hands, like he’d held them countless times on sleepless days and painful nights before. The tears on Philips face were no stranger anymore; he’d seen them too many times, wiped them away on too many occasions.

He pressed his face against the hair of Philip’s head. Practically digging his cheek into it. “I’m sorry,” he growled wishing for some type of reaction, anything. He stayed still. Jefferson could barely feel the rise and fall of the boys body as he breathed. He listened again to his breathing. It sounded different this time. Instead of a full inhale, he could hear him struggling to expand him lungs. He got nervous, hoping that he had heard it wrong. But again, Philip tried to inhale, and stopped half-way through. He listened again and again to his shallow breaths, as fear started to creep into his emotions watching as each breathe got shallower. He had watched many other people come and go in his life, He had felt sadness. But there was more then just sadness

He knew _ **the look**_. He had dealt with death so much in his life he had come to know and understand ** _the look_**. But still, even as he felt the breathe of the boy propped against him finally start to slow to a halt, did he pray. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe if he tried harder this time god would hear…he never heard the other times, maybe now was different? Maybe now there was a chance. A chance for renewal, a chance for revival. To start over,

_To begin anew_

But as time slowed to a stand still, and the scent of the blood that was dribbling from Philip’s nose and stomach wound caught on the winds, and the flow of said blood slowed down to a weak drip, and the boys breathing finally came to a halt, did Thomas fully come to realize what he had come to know for so many years, but refused to admit.

His prayers were in vain. God, or Fate or whatever the name was of the supreme force out there, had stopped caring years ago.

**Author's Note:**

> This was sent to to me as a Drabble Prompt request on Tumblr  
> The Prompt had been "Don't Leave me" and me with my angsty ass decided to turn it into a basically "What if " for my AU
> 
>  
> 
> Comments Are much appreciated


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